


Turn the Page

by beckalina



Category: NSYNC
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckalina/pseuds/beckalina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On a lonely, lonesome highway, east of Omaha . . ."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn the Page

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 8/9/2001

You're not sure exactly where you are. Lance is the one who knows that shit, not you. The bus is traveling smoothly across the black asphalt of the highway, the only sounds you can hear your own breathing, light snores from the bunks around you--and the comforting low murmur of the engine as it carries you to where you need to be.

You think of the girl you had on her knees a few hours earlier, in the dark corner of the VIP area. The way her eyes lit up when you pulled her from the dance floor, her obvious inexperience. You watched the light die as you thanked her, your tone slightly condescending. You didn't even look at the slip of paper she handed you before you threw it away.

You let your mind wander, realizing--once again--just how much you hate this fucking life. You've been on the bus for sixteen hours, and you feel like a caged animal. Fuck, you feel like one even when you're not on the bus. Sometimes you want it to be over. Sometimes you want all of the fame to disappear and live a fucking _normal_ existence for once in your damn life.

But the sensation of being on the stage, you know, is like a fucking drug. You crave it. You need that feeling, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You've actually tried real drugs before, snorting coke with JC in a dressing room before some awards show--but that high couldn't even _compare_ to the one you get when thousands of people scream for you.

Nothing can touch you when you're in that spotlight. _Nothing_. You're a star up there. Hell, you're a fucking _god_ up there. You put every ounce of your heart, your soul, every bit of energy in your body into those performances. Sweat covers you, soaking through the costuming--but you never care. You _live_ for those moments.

But then the spotlight fades, and the grittiness of life seeps back in. Fame is a paradox. You have everything you've ever wished for, everything you've ever wanted. But you aren't fucking happy. When you were younger--naïve--you never thought it would be like this. You wish you had.

You can feel the bus slowing beneath you, turning onto an off-ramp. You don't want to stop. You're sick and fucking tired of walking into restaurants in the middle of the night under the assumption that the late hour will make you safe. It rarely does.

There will be a family in the restaurant, a girl--maybe a couple girls--staring at you and your bandmates like slabs of meat waiting to be devoured. They'll whisper to themselves, giggling softly. And before the food is even at your table, you'll be making nice and signing autographs. You fucking hate it.

You can't treat some of the fans like you want to. You want to scream at them, tell them to get the fuck away from you and let you live your life. But you know from experience that you can't do that. They can sue you for hurting their feelings, but you can't sue them for turning you into a bitter shell of your former self.

You can hear JC and Chris beginning to stir--you know they'll be more than happy to go into the restaurant. They aren't you. They can go wherever the fuck they want.

You feign sleep when Chris pulls back the curtain. Your hand swats at him when he pushes you, you mumble for him to leave you alone. He knows you well enough to listen, and the curtain slowly slides shut.

You wait a few minutes, five, then ten--staring at the ceiling of your bunk as if it holds the secrets to life. Secrets. That's a funny thing. You barely have any, anymore. The ones you have managed to hang onto are worth more than gold to the tabloids.

Slipping out of your bunk, you grab a pack of cigarettes from their hiding place--a little niche on the corner of the small space. No one knows it's there but you. Fuck, no one even knows you smoke. You're the _golden boy_. You've always professed to hate smoking--another reason you're a fucking hypocrite.

It's dark outside, the early fall air brisk against a body clothed in boxers and a tank top. You didn't care enough to change. You flick your lighter--cheap black plastic--and bring it up to the cigarette clamped between your lips.

The bright orange flame dances in front of your eyes, a warm glow cast upon your fingers. It's the only thing that's warm about you, these days. You lean against the bus, the orange-red tip of your cigarette burning brightly in the inky blackness.

You take a slow drag, trying to imagine all of your worries, all of your troubles--dissipating along with the blue-gray cloud of smoke. You always do this, every time you smoke. It never works--but you aren't quite ready to give up hope.

You remember what Britney told you a few weeks ago. Right after she broke up with you--the media doesn't know about that yet. They still think the "prince and princess of pop" are a happy, loving couple.

_"You're fucking jaded. You're barely even human anymore, Justin."_

Dropping the cigarette to the ground and snuffing it out with your expensive leather sneaker - you begin to wonder if she wasn't right, after all.


End file.
